


Of Sweaters and Mattering

by Oboeist3



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types, w2h
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2621036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just another normal day in the life, or death, of Sock Sowachowski. Haunting Jonathan, trying to grab knives, all the good stuff. Until he ends up seeing something he never thought he'd see, something that makes his job that much harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Sweaters and Mattering

It all started with a comment, a little thing buried within the repertoire of banter Sock always threw in Jonathan’s face in his wildly unsuccessful attempts to get him to kill himself, most of which he tuned out with music or a well carved apathy.

"Honestly, it’s not like you have that much to live for! You wake up, wear the same stupid grey sweater and trudge through the school day. You’re barely passing your classes and everyone thinks you’re crazy because of me. So really you just ought to kill yourself!" he exclaimed with his usual Sock logic, as they walked (or floated) down the main hall of school.

"I like that stupid grey sweater." he said defensively, surprising Sock. As mentioned, Jonathan spent most of his time ignoring him and his attempts to drive him to suicide. He must really have hit a nerve, he thought, and a devilish grin spread over his face.

"Why? It’s not exactly the Ferrari of sweaters or anything. It doesn’t even have any colors. It’s boring and drab."

"It does it’s job." he snapped, before a look of panic crossed his face, like he’d said too much. He shoved his hands into his pockets and bowed his head as he walked faster, leaving Sock behind to ponder the meaning of that ambiguous statement. Suddenly, Jonathan seemed a bit more interesting.

* * *

Despite common belief, Sock actually respected his charge’s personal space most of the time. Sure, he got all up in his face in school and while he was doing his homework, but like most people, (or demons), his job ended at five, and he wasn’t one to work active overtime. But Jonathan’s house was cooler than Hell, literally, so he’d watch TV or futilely attempt to grab knives until he grew bored enough to go back to Hell or find Jonathan. Tonight, it was the latter.

"Hey Jonny!" he said in an annoying sing song voice as he floated upstairs, sticking his head through the bedroom wall, only to find the room empty. "Jonathan?" he called out, slipping into the teen’s room, covered in posters of Vahalla Soundbox and Marvel superheroes. (‘What a dweeb.’ he thought, not for the first time.)

"Go away, I’m taking a piss!" said the dweeb in question. Those words did not inspire Sock to leave. If anything, it made him all the more likely to stay.

"Why, am I bothering you?" he said, drifting towards the bathroom but not sticking his head in yet.

He could hear the following sigh clearly, even through the door. “Don’t you ever take a break?” he asked, not really annoyed but certainly not pleased. The usual, bothersome apathy.

"Nope! Someone’s got to get you to kill yourself!" he said cheerily.

"Lucky me." he deadpanned, nearly drowned out by the flushing sound of the toilet, followed by the rushing water of the sink as he washed his hands. It was at this point that Sock stuck in his head, about to make some witty comment that died in his mouth when he saw what was presented to him.

There were scars all up and down Jonathan’s arms, red and raised and in parallel lines from wrist to elbow, too precise to even be considered accidental. Some were faint, barely there things crisscrossing his wrists, others deeper, with far more intent. The most noticeable one was long, spanning the length of his forearm, cutting the others in half and forming a kind of awkward tree of scar tissue.

Sock was so focused on the scars, slack-jawed and open mouthed, that he didn’t notice the teen’s attention on him.

"What are you staring at?" he grumbled, even though the answer was obvious. He huffed at the lack of an answer and threw the towel at him, which passed uselessly through his body. "I don’t even know why you’re surprised. Wasn’t this in my file?" he asked, and Sock just shook his head. It felt like the wrong time to tell him his file was pretty bare, with ne’er but his name and the fact that he liked sandwiches.

"Whatever." he said, walking through him and back into his room, which was just the shock Sock needed to get back to reality.

"Wait!" he called, floating after him. "You seriously tried to kill yourself? Why didn’t you tell me?!" he said, sounding almost betrayed.

"Gee, maybe because you’re trying to kill me."

"I have to get you to kill  _yourself._  I wish I could kill you. That would be way easier.”

"Comforting." he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Look, can we just not talk about this?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It’s bad enough that you show up right after I get let out of suicide watch, ok?" The words shut him up again, like the seal of a biolock ominously clicked closed.

"Just go home, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow." he said, getting into bed and curling into a ball under the covers, dead to the world. Sock sighed. If only it were as easy as that to actually kill him.

* * *

For nearly a week after the ‘Bathroom Incident’, as Sock had mentally labeled the event, he couldn’t bring himself to annoy Jonathan, as if any word would finally tip him over the edge and have him slashing up his own skin. He didn’t know why that idea didn’t appeal to him, after all, it made his job easier, but he didn’t want it to be.

For one thing, being on the business end of a knife  _hurt,_  and he’d only done it once. He couldn’t even imagine doing it consistently. And it was a little bit scary, seeing the evidence of Jonathan’s suicidal tendencies so plainly. He knew they had to be there, otherwise Mephi wouldn’t have taken notice of him, but it just wasn’t the Jonathan he knew.

The Jonathan Sock had come to know was indifferent, stuck in a limbo between caring and not, hating life but not enough to do anything about it. It was frustrating but intriguing, and it kept him around long enough to get to really know him, about the guitar at his feet and the posters on his wall, and how much he cared about his Mom, little as he saw her. He didn’t presume to know everything, but Sock thought he’d known him pretty well. Those scars changed everything. For better or worse, he just didn’t know.

* * *

"Hey Jonathan? Why’d you start cutting yourself?" he asked one day after school, hovering in midair as the teen read some book for English. The Great Gatsby, he caught sight of when he looked.

He just shrugged, not looking up from his book as he answered. “I don’t know. The usual, I guess. Sucky classes, sucky peers, family drama, being terrified of the future. Stuff like that.”

"Was it really that bad?" the demon asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

"Maybe. Looking back now, I guess it was kind of dumb. I cared too much."

"About what?"

"About everything. I thought things mattered. I know better now. Life is just a series of disappointments, but it’s better than being dead."

"You don’t know that."

"But you do. Life’s better than Hell, isn’t it?"

"It’s not that bad."

"Is it any good?" he asked, his eyes finally lifting from his book and looking at him with such intensity that it made Sock shudder.

"Depends." he decided on after a moment. He dare not say no, not only because of his boss, but because he rather liked the way he was now. It was better than life, for him. But Jonathan wasn’t like him. He probably wouldn’t like Hell.

"On what?"

"On…whether or not you have a fear of alphabetizing. Meph needs someone to organize the hall of crippling phobias for the rest of eternity."

"I think I’ll pass." he said, his attention slowly returning to the book, making Sock feel a little less on the spot.

"You’re wrong, you know." he finally said.

"What?"

"About things, they do matter. Some of them at least. Like the shoulder to waist ratio of Chris Evans. That guy’s like a Dorito." Sock swore he caught something like a snerk, and he smiled as he continued. "And Vahalla’s Soundbox. They matter to people too. Why else would they be popular? Snow and sleeping in and picking flowers out of the neighbor’s yard when you aren’t supposed to, and a million other things, they all matter. Maybe there isn’t a lot of major things that matter right now, but one of the things I did like about life was that it was always changing."

Jonathan just blinked at the demon for a moment and shook his head.

"You really suck at your job, you know."

This time it was Sock who shrugged.

"I know. I’ll get around to it eventually. I’ve got an eternity."


End file.
